My dental situation was just one of the many signs of how I’d neglected myself over the years. I’d also been denying the incredible pain my left hand was in—I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t want to stop touring for a moment. But, yes, the cartilage in my left thumb turned out to be trashed from beating the crap out of pianos, and although I can play piano just fine (for now), there are days when getting my hand into my pocket or turning a key is a nearly insurmountable challenge. In fact, I had a laundry list of injuries that suddenly made themselves known—mostly occupational from my style of piano-playing. All ignored as they developed. It turns out pianos hit back.
My dentist, Dr. McLeod
Hitting bottom takes all forms. It doesn’t have to be a VH1 Behind the Music episode—you know that rockumentary TV series from the nineties, which was basically short documentaries of famous musical artists? Those were great! Each major musical artist’s story would inevitably climax at that moment when the artist seemed to be on top of the world…and then…addiction, debt, depression. *Cue dramatic music and bad video effects.* It was always something. Without exception. But no matter how many times it’s told, that story never gets old.
My hitting bottom didn’t involve sleeping in my own piss in an alley (I don’t think), or being taken away in handcuffs from a casino, or shooting holes in my girl’s tires in my underwear while the neighbors called the cops. Nothing like that. That’s not the way it works for most of us. But most everyone will hit bottom in some way—subtly or loudly, many times or just once—and that’s why the sensational celebrity version of the story is always of interest. Hitting bottom is to acknowledge that the next lesson will not be cheap.
You don’t actually need to have a demon you’ve run from your whole life to hit bottom. Demons can grow from a single cell in the petri dish of your soul while you’re neglecting yourself for years on end. Demons can be of our own creation. Unforced-error demons. There’s nothing romantic about any of that! It won’t sell a rockumentary most of the time, but it’s your life and you have to straighten it out. Eventually, as you address one issue you discover another, because everything is connected. Life. Love. Finances. Music. Even teeth.
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In 2010, my life was hitting bottom and I decided to finally say uncle! and submit myself to all the stuff that I’d been running from. I was going through my fourth divorce, the result of a personally devastating rebound that could’ve been avoided. If I didn’t rethink it all, I was in danger of losing the respect of my family and friends, my health, and my mind, along with half of my earnings (again). I didn’t know yet what drove this pattern of marriage and divorce, or my workaholism, the sleeplessness, or the dreaded gnawing anxiety I felt each morning before facing the day. But I knew it had real consequences. I had a spiritual toothache. And if my soul and artistry suffered too much more decay, not even Dr. McLeod would be able to help me. And I knew I had to turn the oil barge of patterns around and paddle ferociously to avert disaster.
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I moved to Los Angeles in 2011 after the divorce was filed. I still had my recording studio and my place in Nashville, but the twins, who were now twelve, had been moved to L.A., and so that’s where my heart would have to be. I went straight there, to space and silence, alone and shaking like a leaf. Sounds like a small deal, but I hadn’t stopped moving in my adult life, save for the time I had pneumonia. I remember that first painfully quiet night in my new apartment in Santa Monica, sad and demoralized, sitting on some cardboard boxes, when, suddenly, I felt an unexpected tiny dash of optimism. Or maybe it was relief. I jotted this down in my new living room full of unpacked housewares and Saran-wrapped furniture. The opening lines to the song “So There”:
A mattress and a stereo, just like I started
And a note composed with thumbs and phone on unpacked boxes
Los Angeles is the place to be for self-help, self-awareness, and self-everything, except maybe self-service. I had to rethink my old-fashioned stance on therapy, and all kinds of other show-biz whiny-ass self-discovery shit, because I had never been a big believer in turning a flashlight and microscope on myself. But there’s a time and place for everything, and I had come to the right place at the right time. I needed to ignore all self-ridicule. I actually needed a hand. And asking for help can be scary for someone who has never let anyone near the black box.
If you detect a little Born Again™ vibe in all of this, then yeah, fine. It’s an arduous process, rebooting your mind and soul. I did all the corny things you’d imagine you’d do upon moving to L.A.—old-fashioned jogging, yoga, Pilates, and, my favorite, Gyrotonic (look that up if you’re bored). I had just learned Transcendental Meditation back in Nashville, prior to my decision to move to L.A., which I now consider a turning point. Meditation gave my mind space and just enough openness for some perspective—a little crack in the soul through which to drive some reason.
My neurologist friends, many of whom I’ve made through my interest in music therapy, tell me that new thinking requires new material pathways to be formed in your brain. You have to work to dig these new neuro highways every day, despite the old ruts and the grip that your old habits have on you. Old-fashioned plasticity. It’s one day at a time. The physical and mental can’t be separated any more than the music and the life. My Folds’ Hack Method™ for rehabilitating myself was a simple matter of taking lessons from what had always worked in my artistry. After years of taking from my life to make songs, it was time to do the reverse and let what I’d learned from songwriting now inform my life.
I feel another play coming on. Let’s imagine a surreal classroom lit magically with some dry ice for effect. Younger iterations of myself seated, dressed in variations of Angus Young from AC/DC, with older me the teacher in front—pacing the room full-thespian Dead Poets Society style. Here we go.
What Music Can Teach Life: A Damn Short Play
BEARDED NOW ME: “Okay, kids, settle down. Little Ben, seated up front in the muddy shoes, what did you learn after school waiting around construction sites?”
CHILD ME: “I learned the value of taking time. Taking the time to discover what it is I want to create, and not letting what’s around me lead too much!”
BEARDED NOW ME: “Very good, very good. Okay! Pubescent Ben. Yes, you back there with all the zits. What have you got for me?”
TEENAGE ME: “As a musician you can only get so far without outside help, like a teacher or a mentor? Sir!”
BEARDED NOW ME: “That’s exactly right. No man is an island. All right, you in the back, please wake up! Yes, you. Silly young man in the Bavarian getup, can you tell us something you’ve learned?”